Chapter 4 The Price of Admission

CASPIAN POV

The first day of official production was a master class in psychological warfare.

Elaria and her production crew had set up our first official "date" at the campus ice rink during open skate hours. They wanted something wholesome, something that contrasted sharply with the violence of the leak. The irony wasn't lost on me, the same ice where I'd built my reputation as a predator on skates was now supposed to soften me into a romantic lead. The production crew kept the general student body back using velvet ropes, but hundreds of students were pressed against the Plexiglas, their smartphones raised, recording our every move for their personal feeds. I could hear their whispers, the shutter clicks, the occasional wolf whistle. Every blink, every breath, every fake smile would be dissected by morning.

"Smile, Vance," Aveline muttered through a perfectly fake, bright smile as she sat on the wooden bench, struggling to lace up her hockey skates. Her fingers fumbled with the tangled laces, and I noticed she'd tied them unevenly, a rookie mistake that would guarantee a twisted ankle. The drone was circling back to our left, its red light blinking in lazy loops. "Looks like you're actually glad I'm here instead of wishing I'd fall through the ice."

"I'm trying," I said, forcing my lips into a charming, easy grin that felt entirely unnatural on my face. My cheeks ached from the effort. "It's hard to look happy when my supposed girlfriend looks like she wants to slice my throat with her skate blades the moment the cameras turn off." I meant it as a joke, but the truth behind it sat heavy in my chest. She did hate me. And I couldn't even blame her.

"Practice makes perfect," she sweet-talked, her voice dripping with venomous sarcasm as she stood up from the bench, smoothing down her coat. She wobbled slightly but caught herself on the wooden barrier, shooting a glare at the nearest drone as if daring it to capture her weakness.

But as she stepped from the rubber matting onto the slick ice, her left ankle wobbled violently. She hadn't braced her core properly, and with a sharp gasp of surprise, she began to fall backward toward the hard surface. Time seemed to stretch. I saw her arms pinwheel, her eyes go wide with genuine fear, not the performative fear she'd been faking for the cameras, but the real, primal panic of someone about to crack their skull on frozen water.

Instinct took over before my brain could process the contract. I glided forward, my movements fluid and instantaneous from a lifetime spent on the ice, and caught her by the waist before she could hit the ground. My right arm hooked around her lower back, my left hand bracing against her hip. The impact jarred my already bruised knuckles, but I held steady.

Our bodies collided with a soft thud. Aveline gasped, her small hands instantly grabbing the lapels of my heavy jacket for balance. Her face was buried in my chest for a split second before she looked up, her wide, hazel eyes staring directly into mine. The sharp, cynical edge she always wore vanished completely, replaced by a momentary, breathless vulnerability that made her look entirely different. I could feel the warmth of her breath against my bare neck, the frantic, rapid beat of her pulse against my palm where it rested against her waist. Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

For a second, the roar of the crowd behind the glass and the whirring of the camera drones faded into absolute static. The entire world narrowed down to the pressure of her fingers against my jacket. I could smell her shampoo, something floral, like jasmine and beneath that, the faint scent of the coffee she'd been drinking earlier. Her heart was hammering so hard I could feel it through my coat.

"I've got you," I murmured, my voice dropping an octave, completely forgetting about the tiny wireless microphones clipped to our collars. The words came out softer than I intended, more intimate. I watched her pupils dilate.

Aveline blinked, her cheeks flushing a deep, unmistakable crimson that she couldn't hide. She quickly pushed herself away from my chest, clearing her throat and smoothing down her jacket as she found her balance on the ice. Her hands were shaking slightly. "Right. Thanks. Let's just get this lap over with." She wouldn't meet my eyes. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by the familiar armor of sarcasm, but the red on her cheeks lingered.

By that evening, the video of the "save" was trending number one on the university network, amplified by the Bellerose Live algorithm. Elaria had already clipped it into a ten-second loop with soft piano music underneath. The Moment Everything Changed, the caption read. The comment section was a chaotic mess of skepticism and sudden, intense obsession from the student body. 'Are they actually real?' 'Look at the way he looked at her!' 'She's changing him already.' 'Wait, did anyone else see her blush?' The public was eating up the narrative, but the consequences of our little performance didn't take long to hit me in the real world. My phone buzzed with a text from my agent: "NHL teams are calling again. Keep doing exactly what you're doing." The relief was sour. I was being rewarded for a lie.

Later that night, as I walked back to the athletic dorms through the darkened, snow-dusted campus quad, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the old stone library. The snow had started falling harder, fat white flakes catching in the streetlight glow. My breath fogged in front of me. I had my hands in my coat pockets, my mind still tangled in the memory of Aveline's blush, when I heard the crunch of boots on fresh snow.

"Well, well. Look at the happy couple. The thug and the journalist," a mocking voice sneered.

I stopped in my tracks, my muscles instantly coiling into a defensive posture. Lysander Thorne stood there, a thick white bandage taped over his jaw where I had broken it three days ago. He held a sleek, silver smartphone in his hand, a malicious, triumphant grin playing on his lips. The bruises on his face had shifted from purple to a sickly yellow-green, but his eyes were as sharp and cruel as ever.

"You think this little reality show is going to save your draft spot, Vance?" Lysander laughed, stepping closer until he was illuminated by the yellow light of a street lamp. Snow melted on his shoulders. "You think that little journalism girl is going to protect your secrets once she finds out who you really are? I saw the metrics for your show. It's a massive hit. Which means when I drop the truth about your family and your medical records, the fall is going to be so much more spectacular." He held up his phone, and I caught a glimpse of a folder on the screen, documents, scanned copies, my mother's name in bold letters.

"Stay away from her, Lysander," I growled, my voice dropping into a dangerous register, my fists clenching so hard the split skin on my knuckles threatened to reopen. The cold air bit at the exposed wounds. "This is between you and me. She has nothing to do with this."

"Oh, I don't care about her," Lysander whispered, his eyes gleaming with pure venom. "I care about destroying you completely. Enjoy your fake little romance while it lasts, Caspian. Because I'm about to make sure both of you lose everything you're fighting for."